


Like a Boat on the Sea

by learningthetrees



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Night Terrors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 13:37:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14166012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learningthetrees/pseuds/learningthetrees
Summary: Maybe if she held him tightly enough, some of his burden would be transferred to her. Maybe she could help him carry it.





	Like a Boat on the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know that I used to write Hannibal fan fiction? Here's some of it.

 

The nightmare struck when they’d only been married for a week. Molly remembered the nights when Willy was very young; he would wake up with night terrors, shivering and shaking and sweating, afraid of sounds and images plaguing him from beyond sleep. So when Will jerked awake beside her, struggling to take shuddering breaths, she reached out into the darkness to switch on the light and turned to look at her husband.

The sudden light flooding the room startled him, and he looked around him, blinking rapidly as if he’d forgotten where he was. His curls were damp, the neck of his t-shirt darkened with perspiration. Molly extended a hand slowly towards him, resting it lightly on his shoulder. She was surprised when his hand enclosed tightly around hers, anchoring him to her, keeping him from floating off into nightmare again.

Molly squeezed his shoulder and he finally looked at her. Eye contact wasn’t easy for Will. Often, he saw too much, the little details distracting him. But he always looked at Molly. She could see the fear and pain in his eyes—who knew what horrific memory his sleeping mind had conjured up to torture him? He’d had his share of suffering, more than any one person should have to endure, and although it had been years since FBI business had been a part of his life, Molly knew the memories were never far from the surface. Yes, he looked scared and alone, but there was something else written on his face, too: embarrassment. Molly’s lips parted softly as she brushed a finger along Will’s cheek, following the trail of a solitary tear.

“It’s all right,” she whispered.

And with that validation, Will collapsed into her arms, his head buried in the crook of her neck, his body racked with muffled sobs. She gripped him tightly, wrapping her arms across his back, trying desperately to close all the space between them. Maybe if she held him tightly enough, some of his burden would be transferred to her. Maybe she could help him carry it. Her lips against his ear, she cooed comforting _shhhh_ s while his cries quieted.

Will pulled away, his head hanging and his energy spent. “Molly, I’m so sorry,” he choked out, but she gently lifted his chin so his eyes met hers again.

“Come here,” she said, pushing back the sheets and taking his hand as she climbed out of bed. With their fingers lightly intertwined and Molly leading the way, they padded down the dark hall to the bathroom. “Sit,” she said after flipping the light switch, indicating the toilet. Will perched on it, fists balled up nervously on his thighs. Molly turned on the tap, testing the water on her wrist to make sure it wasn’t too hot or cold, and, when satisfied, ran it over a washcloth. She turned towards Will, dabbing the washcloth against his forehead and hairline. As she touched the cloth to his temple, he closed his eyes and the tension faded from his face. She knew him well enough by now to know he carried stress in his jaw, that his brows hooded his eyes when he was angry. Now, all she saw on his face was relief — that deep-seated contentment that can only come in the middle of the night in the arms of a loved one.

When the residue was washed from his face and the color starting to return to his cheeks, Molly wrung out the washcloth and set it aside. “Let’s get this off of you,” she said, tugging lightly at the hem of his soaked t-shirt. He pulled the shirt off, stiffening slightly as his stomach and chest became exposed. A white, ropy scar, about the width of Molly’s index finger, stretched from Will’s left hip to the bottom of his right ribcage. Sometimes, he was still self-conscious about his scars, both the ones that were written on his skin and those that were less visible.

Molly took the shirt from Will and tossed it into the laundry hamper before pulling a fresh one out of the pile on the counter. She’d asked Willy earlier to put the laundry away, but as usual, he’d forgotten. She proffered it to Will, who stood up as he took it from her and donned it. She patted his damp hair and gave him a small smile. “That looks better.”

Taking his hand again, Molly led him back to the bedroom. She brushed her palm along the sheets on Will’s side of the bed to find that, much like his shirt, they’d been soaked through with cold sweat. Remembering how it had helped Willy to fall back to sleep in a dry bed, she started to strip the bed. Will crossed to the other side and helped, balling up the sheets and taking them down the hall to the bathroom while Molly remade the bed. When Will crossed the threshold again, Molly swatted him playfully on the arm with a pillowcase, eliciting a smile and a low laugh.

Fresh sheets adorning the bed, Molly settled back into her spot and patted the bed beside her. “Here, Hotshot,” she said with a smile, as Will climbed across the bed to sit next to her.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

She slipped her hand into his. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Will sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. “It was him.”

Molly didn’t need to ask who. There was only one person who had hurt him this badly, only one person whose name could render him speechless, only one person who still haunted him despite being behind bars for the past two years.

“It was him,” Will continued, “and he was…he had you. He was dragging you below black water, farther and farther under the surface. My arms were lead — I would have torn you free, drowned him in his own darkness, but I couldn’t move, Molly. I couldn’t —”

His voice caught in his throat. Molly put a comforting hand on his jaw. “You’re here with me, now. He can’t hurt me. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Will averted his eyes, letting out a small, exasperated scoff. “You don’t deserve this. You deserve better than a broken, scarred, haunted man.”

Molly closed the space between them, pressing her lips to his. He kissed her back, immediately responding to her confirmation. In Molly’s experience, self-doubt was always present in relationships, and the best way to dispel it was through affection. Will thought he was bad for her—that his past had taken him beyond redemption. But Molly knew that it wasn’t about saving each other; it was about surviving together. As long as she was there to kiss away the nightmares and as long as he was there to help her build a new life, they would survive.

Will’s fingers were tangled in her hair when he broke the kiss. His eyes flitted briefly back to her lips before they settled on her eyes. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too, Hotshot,” Molly said with a smile, settling down against his side and resting her head on his chest.

As the Florida sunrise crested across the bay, the house was bathed in a golden light and all was quiet. Still nestled next to each other, Molly and Will slept peacefully, separated for a moment from their troubles like a boat floating on a tranquil sea.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [ask-learningthetrees.tumblr.com](http://www.ask-learningthetrees.tumblr.com)!


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